Flat
by Expendable Red Shirt
Summary: Rachel Berry is totally confident in herself. Except… she's completely flat. So is there anything wrong with stuffing her bra a little? Well according to Quinn Fabray, yes, there is. Freshman pre-Faberry, with some Hummelberry friendship and Brittana on the side. One-Shot.


**A/N: **This is just a pre-Faberry one-shot, set during their freshman year. I'm not exactly the most well-endowed person myself, so I can identify with Rachel's plight ;). I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Rachel Berry had been called many things in her fourteen years – most of which were certainly not complimentary. She'd been called clown, big-nose, Squidward (she couldn't vouch for the creativity of her peers). She'd been taunted with insults about her Jewish heritage, and her gay fathers. She'd been sneered at and called Hobbit, Midget, Elf, etc. in response to her height, or lack thereof. She'd been teased about her clothes, called a toddler and a perverted grandma, and Jew-Ho (to Jacob Ben Israel's Jewfro). She'd been called Man Hands, Rupaul, a transgender prostitute, and some names she absolutely refused to repeat because she didn't like to use such foul language.

Fortunately, she could take all the insults in stride. After all, she was going to be famous one day, and that meant she was going to have some jealous detractors (commonly called 'haters') who would post mean rants about her on message boards and on all her videos. Ignoring the insults thrown at her now was good practice for ignoring the ones that came later in her career.

But there was one particular aspect to the teasing that was beginning to get to her.

"Flat!"

"God, you're like a pancake!"

"You should go back to the fifth grade with all the other little kids. Maybe they can lend you their training bras."

"Are you sure you're even a _girl_?"

Yes, Rachel was rather flat-chested. She maintained that she was simply a late bloomer, and that her development would come later than other girls because of her strictly controlled vegan diet that stopped her from being exposed to unhealthy chemicals and unnatural growth hormones that pushed teens into puberty earlier than was intended by nature. However, there was no reasoning with her classmates, and her lack of cup size was becoming one of their favorite things to taunt her about (second only to her nose – they were _really_ preoccupied with her nose).

When the first insults aimed at her chest had started, she hadn't really minded. She'd been twelve and didn't even _want_ boobs yet anyway. By the time she got into high school, however, the teasing was starting to get to her. Because, unlike all of their other insults, which she could undo with some well-placed compliments and assurances to her reflection (her nose was like Barbra's, her clothes were unique and prep-chic, her hands were perfectly girly and delicate, she looked nothing like a man, short was cute and at least she wasn't awkwardly tall and gangly, being Jewish was something to be proud of, having two gay fathers just meant she would always be more forward-thinking than her peers), she couldn't deny that she was flat-chested. There was no way around it. She didn't have boobs. It was unlikely that there were any other freshmen who still didn't have enough cleavage to fill a 32A.

Unfortunately, she had no one to share her concerns with. While she loved both her fathers dearly and would passionately argue against anyone who said she was missing anything by not having a mother, the truth was there were some things you just couldn't go to a dad about, some things that needed a mother's touch. Neither of her dads had sisters, and Rachel's surrogate mother had never tried to get in contact with her, so she was out of family options (except for maybe her Grandmother, but then, every conversation with Grandma Viola quickly spiralled into an unintelligible rant about Asians and how they were taking over America, and Rachel really didn't think the slightly crazy old woman could give any good advice on what to do when one felt their breast size was inadequate).

If Rachel had had any female friends, she could have gone to them with this issue. Alas, most girls seemed to automatically dislike her – well, most _people_ seemed to automatically dislike her, so she didn't really have any friends at all. Unless she counted Kurt Hummel, the quiet, fashionable boy she shared a lunch table in the corner of the cafeteria with, but he mostly listened to his iPod or surfed the internet on his phone at lunch, and he ignored her attempts at conversation and would grab his tray and walk away if she tried to talk to him too many times in one lunch period, so she couldn't imagine he would stay for a whole heart-to-heart session about her lack of cleavage. And in any case, Kurt was a boy, and gay or not, he wouldn't understand her predicament.

So she'd asked the fine patrons of the internet, and, in between the insults and propositions for sex, had found some helpful answers. She ignored the people who said she should be comfortable with her body the way it was – because she was _perfectly_ comfortable with her body, _thank you very much_, she was just sick of people teasing her for it. Instead, she focused on the answers that could all be summed up in one word: stuffing.

According to the responders who suggested she stuff her bra, she shouldn't use tissue paper. It was unrealistic. Her best bet was silicone inserts that she could put in her bra. They would give her smooth, natural-looking (but enhanced) breasts, and that was just what she was looking for.

And so she told her dads she needed to buy the inserts for a role she was playing, and luckily they didn't question her and simply handed over a credit card to fund her purchase. After the inserts were ordered (with the promise that they would arrive within six to eight business days), Rachel went to Victoria's Secret, a store she'd never had the confidence to venture into before, and purchased a few cute, frilly B-cup bras. She ignored the incredulous look the sales attendant gave her as she rang her purchases up; she was far too excited to care about anyone's judgment.

It was just over a week later when her inserts came in the mail. She spent over two hours picking the perfect shirt to accentuate her new cleavage, and spent another thirty minutes after that admiring her new womanly figure in the mirror.

She ignored the little voice in her mind – the voice that sounded an awful lot like Barbra Streisand – telling her that this person in the mirror wasn't Rachel Berry, and that she was changing herself for other people. That wasn't true at all! She was doing this for herself, because Rachel always radiated confidence (it was integral to her being), but it was difficult to do so when she had some body issues. And if you can do something completely harmless to give yourself a confidence boost, then why in the world should you not do it? Besides, she wasn't giving herself double-D's or something ridiculous like that – just a nice 34B, like Quinn Fabray, who had nice breasts that were supple without being oversized, and complimented her perfectly (she also ignored the voice telling her that she paid _way_ to much attention to Quinn Fabray's breasts).

Confidence boosters. That's all the inserts were. As long as she was doing this for herself and not anyone else, she didn't see the harm in her decision.

~O~O~

Rachel walked into school the next day, head held high and chest pushed forward just slightly (she wanted people to notice, of course, but didn't want them to _know_ she wanted them to notice; subtlety was key). Much to her satisfaction, she received many double-takes throughout the course of the day, and was thrilled when she even caught a couple guys ogling her new breasts.

She sat down at her lunch table with a winning smile on her face – a smile that only grew when Kurt caught a glance at her chest and promptly choked on his bite of celery.

"R-Rachel," he gasped, and Rachel leaned forward in anticipation. Was her new bust size swaying Kurt to start an actual conversation with her? Who would have thought cleavage could be that powerful? "What?... How did?... _What_?"

He obviously wasn't going to say anything worthwhile, so she graciously started the conversation for him. "I see you've noticed my new and improved breasts," she said proudly.

He blushed and averted his eyes to the table at the word 'breasts.' "Sort of hard not to notice," he muttered.

"Thank you!" Rachel replied joyously, positively _beaming._ "That _was_ the goal."

For the next several minutes, Kurt's gaze would begin to wander up to her chest, but he would quickly catch himself and look back down at his food. This happened several times, but he did not open his mouth to say anything. He still looked troubled, though, so Rachel spoke up on his behalf. "Is there anything you want to ask me, Kurt?"

"Did you get a boob job?" he blurted, then slapped a hand over his mouth, almost as if he couldn't believe he'd asked the question. "Never mind," he said after moving his hand. "If you did, I don't want to know."

"But –"

"No!" he cut her off quickly, hurrying to pack up his things. "Boobs… boobs aren't my area of expertise. See you tomorrow, Rachel." He paused briefly, and turned back to her with a surprisingly sincere look in his eye. "Just so you know, Rachel, I thought you looked just as beautiful before your boob job. You didn't need to change." And then he was gone.

Rachel smiled warmly at him as he left. Sure, he'd run off, but he had initiated a conversation, however brief, and had complimented her. That was more than he'd ever done in the past, and Rachel counted that as progress. Hopefully they'd be close enough to have sleepover and give each other makeovers soon - he would look _fabulous_ in her unicorn sweater.

And to think, it was all because of some squishy bra inserts.

Of course, the smile slipped off her face as her mind wandered back to the last thing he'd said. 'You didn't need to change.' It was… sweet that he thought that, but she _did_ need to change. Of course she did. To feel better about herself. Kurt was a boy, and a gay one at that; he clearly just didn't understand the amount of emphasis that society placed on a girl's breasts.

She managed to work up a grin after she'd assured herself that he would come around, especially after she explained her reasoning to him tomorrow. (Were they now at the point that they could have a full conversation without him running away?) The small grin did not leave her lips as she packed up her lunch and flounced out of the cafeteria to freshen up in the girl's restroom during the remaining ten minutes before class, ignoring Jacob Ben Israel's demands for an interview for his blog (and if that didn't make her feel like a celebrity…).

She couldn't help but stare at her reflection in the mirror. As she looked at herself, her smile began to fade again. She loved her chest now, of course, loved that she didn't look like a little kid anymore. But… there was something so rotten and _fake_ about the whole thing, it left a bad taste in her mouth, and she couldn't say she was completely _happy_ looking at her reflection. And wasn't being happy with herself the main reason she had done this in the first place?

However, before she could ponder over her conflicting feelings any longer, the door swung open to reveal none other than popular cheerleader Quinn Fabray. And she didn't look happy.

~O~O~

It was a regular Tuesday for Quinn Fabray. She'd gone to sleep early the night before because she had a 6 a.m. Cheerios practice, and she'd showered and done her morning routine in the special Cheerios locker room before setting off to first period with her two best friends, Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce, at her side. While Brittany drew pictures of kittens and Santana made out with a football player she probably didn't know the name of, Quinn actually took careful notes. Just because she was popular didn't mean she couldn't get good grades, and she had a 4.6 grade point average to maintain.

Of course, when the teacher moved on to a topic Quinn was already familiar with, her mind couldn't help but wander. When she heard the whispers of the two girls in front of her, she had to listen, of course – she was always on the lookout for new gossip.

"– boobs are like twice the size they used to be!"

"Do you think she got a boob job?"

"Probably. I know_ I_ would, if I were as flat-chested as her."

"Same here. Though I don't know why she didn't get a nose job to go along with it. How can she fix her boobs but ignore her hideous nose?" The girls giggled until the teacher shushed them, and they went back to taking notes.

Quinn almost pouted. On the good side, plastic surgery was always great gossip. On the bad side, she still had no idea who they were talking about. She could have just asked the girls, but that would let them know that they were aware of something she wasn't – and that _wasn't_ okay. She always had to be in the position of power; it was part of being McKinley's Queen Bee. That meant she knew the gossip before anyone else (except that large black girl who always seemed to have the scoop on everybody before even Jewfro had caught wind of it). So she couldn't ask them.

Oh well, she'd figure it out soon enough.

~O~O~

It was lunch, and between Finn's most recent idiotic stunt (he'd gotten Quinn daisies, which was sweet, except for that fact that they were dead and smelled like sweaty socks because he'd stored them in his gym locker for a day before giving them to her), and Brittany's allergic reaction to the almond bread they'd made in cooking (Santana had absolutely _flipped_ _out_ – it was only by incredible luck that the teacher had gotten out of the classroom without any stab wounds from the razors Santana claimed, and Quinn didn't doubt, she had hidden her hair), Quinn had forgotten all about the mystery boob job girl from earlier. She had bigger things to worry about, like dealing with a moody Santana who had no Brittany to reign her in.

"Santana, let him go!" Quinn demanded, and Santana whipped her head around to glare at her blond friend, her black ponytail swinging and hitting the side of her face. At Quinn's stern look, she reluctantly got off of the hockey player whom she had tackled to the ground after he'd made an ill-advised comment about Brittany's intelligence. She kicked him once more before walking off, though, and threw a disgusted look at his bloodied, whimpering body.

"You knocked out one of his teeth, Santana," Quinn scolded as the two girls made their way to the cafeteria.

Santana grabbed a red lunch tray and shoved ahead of all the other people in line. Nobody dared complain. "Only one?" she said, sounding disappointed. "He deserved to lose more than that."

Quinn sighed. She loved Santana, she really did, but the fiery Latina could be a bit unnecessarily violent at times. Usually Brittany could calm her down with a few sweet words and a look or a kiss on the cheek (because no matter how much Santana might deny it, she loved her ditzy blonde friend), but Brittany was at home, recovering from her allergic reaction. Honestly, Quinn was surprised Santana wasn't with her already. She doubted the girl would make it through the entire school day though – she and Britt were attached at the hip, or pinky, as it were.

The two walked in silence to their table. Normally they would sit with the other Cheerios and football players, but at the moment Quinn was pissed at Finn ad didn't want to have to deal with his apologies and puppy eyes, and Santana wasn't fit to be around other people, so they took a table for themselves, not really caring to notice the AV club kids they kicked out of the spot. "Your knuckles are bleeding," Quinn pointed out disapprovingly.

Santana glanced down at her knuckles, which were indeed bloody and bruising, but just shrugged in response. Normally Brittany would dress her fight wounds for her, but obviously the sweet blond wasn't here, and she wasn't about to let _Quinn_ do it. No way. That was special to her and Brittany.

They ate in silence for a few minutes – or, more accurately, Quinn ate, and Santana moodily pushed food around her plate and shot fierce glares at passing students – until something caught the Latina's eye. "Quinn, hey Quinn," she said. "Check out Man Hands."

Quinn's eyes immediately flew to the table she knew Rachel Berry always occupied with the gay kid. (And how did she know where Rachel always sat? Certainly not because she was always staring at her when she got bored, or because she was _interested_ in her or anything. Pfft. No. Of course not.)

But, for once, what caught Quinn's eye was not Rachel's smooth brown hair, or her long, toned legs, or anything else that she normally noticed about the unpopular girl – no, this time, Quinn's eyes immediately zeroed in on Rachel's chest. What the hell? Her boobs were… well, they weren't big, exactly, but they were certainly _there_ and they were _noticeable_, which was more than Quinn could have ever said about them before.

"What the…" Quinn trailed off, and looked back to her best friend, who was giving her trademark smirk. "Did Berry get a boob job?"

Santana barked out a laugh. "Oh, Quinn," she said, shaking her head in amusement. "Of course she didn't. She was here yesterday with her normal man-chest. You think she could just come back the school the day after a boob job? She'd be in way too much pain."

"Then how…" Quinn mimed large boobs on her average chest, which made Santana roll her dark eyes. "I mean, unless her molehills turned to mountains _literally_ overnight…"

"She's stuffing, _tonta_," the girl replied with a raised eyebrow, as if it should have been obvious – and really, it should have.

"Don't insult me in Spanish," Quinn snapped, before turning to Rachel again. Her eyes were immediately drawn back to the girl's chest. Even though she could certainly appreciate good cleavage (and, okay, she _so_ wasn't going to think about that sentence again), she didn't like that Rachel was stuffing. She almost missed the cute little mounds the girl had sported only yesterday.

And also, it just wasn't right. Yeah, Rachel was a loser, but Quinn had always admired how confident Rachel was (some might say overconfident, but screw them, it was part of her charm) just being herself, something Quinn _wasn't_. To see Rachel changing herself because of what others said, it… well, it reminded Quinn too much of Lucy.

She blinked and shook herself back to reality, realizing that Rachel's seat was now empty, and the girl was traipsing away through the doors of the cafeteria. Her feet were following in Rachel's steps before she even realized what was happening, but glancing back at Santana, who, judging by the foolishly lovestruck look on her face, was on the phone with Brittany, she figured she wouldn't be missed, and continued following Rachel out to the hallway.

The shorter girl made her way into the restroom, but Quinn stopped just feet before the door. What was she going to do when she got in there? Talk to her? Rachel wouldn't want to listen to anything she had to say. After all, Quinn usually bullied her. But she couldn't just let Rachel keep stuffing her bra – if she gave into this insecurity, it would only get worse for her. And though Quinn knew that many of Rachel's insecurities were thanks, in large part, to her and her friends' bullying, she couldn't stand by idly and let Rachel change herself. Not when she was so special just how she was.

So Quinn took a deep breath, steeled herself, and stepped through the bathroom door. She found Rachel frowning at herself in the mirror, though the girl quickly whirled around to face her when she realized someone new was in the room.

"Quinn Fabray?" she said, seemingly not believing her eyes. "What are you doing in here?"

"It's a school restroom, Berry," Quinn sneered, "is there some rule that says I can't go in here?" Shit, bad Quinn! Be nice! She's not going to listen to you unless you're nice.

"I suppose you're right," Rachel sniffed, and turned back to her reflection.

Quinn cautiously stepped closer to her. "So, I noticed your… chest enhancement," she began awkwardly.

Rachel positively beamed. "You did? Why thank you! I never expected a Cheerio such as yourself to notice."

Quinn frowned deeply. "Why are you stuffing your bra, Rachel? That's not you."

Rachel looked surprised, but quickly covered it up with a haughty expression that Quinn couldn't help but find slightly adorable. "Excuse me, but how would you know what's 'me' and what isn't? It's not like you ever talk to me other than when you're harassing me."

It stung because it was so _true_, but Quinn didn't let that deter her. "Really?" she replied with a raised eyebrow. "So the Rachel Berry I know, the one who is always so confident and untouchable in the face of even the cruelest taunts – does she not exist?"

The brunette glared. "She exists, and she's still right here. She just wanted to do a little harmless self-improvement."

"Did Barbra Streisand decide to change her nose for little 'harmless self-improvement'?" Quinn challenged.

"What do you know of Barbra?"

"I know she's your idol, and that you're completely going against everything she stands for by doing this," Quinn shot back, gesturing to Rachel's chest.

"I'm just stuffing my bra, Quinn!" Rachel yelled. "It's not a big deal!"

"Yes it is, because first it's stuffing your bra. Next thing you know you'll be extreme dieting, bleaching your hair, changing your name, and getting a nose job." She looked Rachel straight in the eyes. "And then you won't even recognize yourself anymore," she finished solemnly.

"How would you know about any of this?" Rachel asked, but her tone was much softer than before, seeing the sadness in Quinn's brown-green eyes. "You're so pretty and perfect. You're nothing like me."

Quinn smiled bitterly. "I know I don't seem like it, but I wasn't _always_ popular and beautiful. And I _wish_ I'd had half the confidence you have, to be yourself, and to walk around this school like you're a star no matter what anyone says to you." Rachel blinked – not to blink away tears, of course, she just had something irritating her eye.

"But _this_, Rachel," she gestured to the girl's altered chest, "this isn't you. And I don't like seeing it. You can't own the hallways until you own yourself. So take the tissue paper or the inserts or whatever out of your bra, and march down that hallway like it's _your_ red carpet. Because you're beautiful, A-cups and all."

Rachel couldn't hold back her tears now, but she was smiling as she cried. She was touched – she hadn't known anyone, especially Quinn Fabray, had cared about her enough to worry over what she thought of herself. "Thank you, Quinn," she said sincerely.

Quinn gave her a small smile – just a quirk of her perfect pink lips, really, but it was something. "Don't mention it." Brown eyes met green, and they kept each other's gaze for several moments.

Quinn looked like she was about to hug the smaller girl, or… do something else, but the bell rang then, breaking them out of their trance. Quinn abruptly turned on her heel and made her way out of the restroom, stopping only to say, "Don't tell anyone about this, Berry, or I swear to God I will _fill_ your locker with bacon," before leaving, Cheerio skirt swishing against her smooth thighs and the bright red door swinging shut behind her.

Rachel simply smiled at her retreating form. She bit her lip, and after only a moment of hesitance, slid the silicone inserts out of her bra. The garment was much too loose-fitting on her now, but that was okay, she could stand it for a day. After all, what star hadn't had to suffer through a wardrobe malfunction or two with a smile on her face?

* * *

**A/N2: **I realized after typing this that Rachel and Quinn have meaningful conversation in the restroom - just like they seem to do all the time on the show!. I didn't even intend for this to happen, it just ended up that way. What is it with those girls and bathrooms?

Please let me know if you spot any mistakes so I can fix them!


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